Gondorian and Rohirric Negotations
by BlueNynaeve
Summary: A series of ficlets on how Eomer and Lothiriel might have met.
1. The Proposal

The couple at the center of the dance floor swayed to a stop, ending their stately pirouette, faces set in polite masks.

"Your highness. Thank you for the dance."

"Eomer King. It was my pleasure to grant such an easy favor to the savior of Gondor upon our acquaintanceship." She let a slightly awkward pause lengthen, before continuing. "It is a lovely night. Perhaps you would accompany me on a cooling walk?"

"It would be my pleasure, your highness. I have something I would like to discuss with you. I have spoken with your father, although he has continually deferred any answer to you."

"So he has informed me. Let us away from these revelers that we may discuss the issue."

The two promenaded gracefully thru the crowd of boisterous and colorfully dressed nobles waiting for the next dance to start. Despite the density of people, they parted before the striking couple. He powered forward tall, broad, and bronze, barely contained seething anger and despair a battering ram preceding his physical self; she glided in concert: tall and slender with black flowing hair, silver eyes and pale face so icily serene she palpably settled any who laid eyes upon her. Whispered speculation and high hopes followed the royal pair as they walked away from the music, none more so than the matching grey stares of his friend King Elessar and her father Prince Imrahil.

When they stopped on a level stretch of riverbank, the music was a slow throb in the distance. Lothiriel retracted her hand from Eomer's guiding arm and folded her hands together at her waist, tilting her face to the bright full moon as if she could feel the sun's reflected rays, stillness in her every aspect. Eomer in contrast stalked back and forth along the smooth sand at the water's edge. After three full passes, he bit out his plaint.

"My people have no food."

"How many are you?"

"Ninety-thousand total. Mostly scattered."

"I will leave the dispersal to you. What have you stored?"

Eomer made a despairing sound, but answered the question calmly enough. "The East-fold sheep herds have maybe three thousand head left, the West-fold cattle herds have maybe a thousand head in mostly individual households although those will be slaughtered in the coming winter decimating our chances of repairing numbers thru breeding, if we do not find another way to feed the crofters."

"The hay harvest was good last year and there is some leftover. If I get the men back soon, we may have a decent hay harvest again this year. There will be no grain harvest. Those fields were destroyed during the Uruk-hai march from Isengard and when the East-fold was overrun."

"Many of the East-folds winter crops were also destroyed. Hopefully the West-fold will be bounteous enough to cover themselves and then some. Edoras can cover itself for vegetables. But it still is not enough food - the Rohirrim have never managed to cultivate enough lands to exchange grains for tubers."

Lothiriel interrupted gently. "Your people will be fed, my lord."

Eomer snorted in disbelief, but the princess continued. "What do you have to trade?"

Eomer rushed to tower over her, practically in tears, gesticulating wildly to encompass the lushness of the Gondorian night about them. "We have nothing to trade."

Despite the angry man looming over her, Lothiriel maintained her infinite calm. She reached up to cup his face with slender fingers. He was so startled by the gesture that he stilled, dropping his hands to his sides, his entire body now canted into her touch.

"Here is what we will do, my lord. For the next five years, through us, Dol Amroth and our allied states in the south will supply Rohan with ten thousand bushels of assorted grains, five hundred head of long hair sheep, one thousand head of milk cows, and five hundred head of pigs per year. "

"In return you will provide exclusive use of the Dimholt and armored caravan guards for the same time frame, for which we will pay a twelve percent toll on any goods sent through the ways. We will give you fair terms for additional amounts of any of the aforementioned goods as well as any dry goods you may need to come thru our ports."

"At the end of four years, you will give us right of first refusal on any extensions and additional terms on the Dimholt passage."

By the end of her recitation, Eomer was grinning wildly, his hands gripping tightly to her slender waist. When she finished, he threw her up in the air with a whoop, catching her against his chest and kissing her soundly. When he finally pulled his lips from hers, her fingers were tangled in his hair, her arms wound tightly about his neck. His arms encased her just as firmly, his breath puffed warm against her cheek.

Her voice sounded if possible even drier than during her description of the trade contract. "I will still expect you to sign and seal a written document, my lord."

He pulled back a little to study her face in the moonlight, heart beating wildly in his chest at the possibility he might have offended her and endangered his people's hope for salvation. But when he saw the quirk of her eyebrow and how her lips were compressed to hide a smile, he relaxed again. Blandly he replied, "Of course, my lady. At such generous terms, your every trifle is my command."

She laughed then and replied, "Well then, my lord. I am sure to save up my trifles for you to fulfill. By this time next year, I suspect we will have a successful exchange."

He threw his head back and whooped again in delight, spinning her around and around in an exuberant parody of their earlier dance.

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><p><em>AN: This is the first chapter in my attempt at something similar to Willow-41z's "First Meetings" Eomer and Lothiriel fic series. Actually there are several musing lists which I aspire to match in quality - check out LadyBluejay and Lialathuveril's fic lists as well._

_When I think of Lothiriel, I picture her as an involved leader in Gondor despite her youth. If her father and brothers mustered to the capitol, then she would have held together the leadership hierarchy of the principality against corsair raids._


	2. The Bridge

The troop of Rohirrim rode up to the missing bridge promontory just in time to see the small body tip off the cliff and plunge into the swirling waters of the river forty feet below. While the Belfalas team of thirty men and women struggling to haul the thick suspension chains across the chasm watched in shock, Eomer commanded the nearest to tell him where the easiest passage down was. He could already see the dark head bobbing along with the swiftly moving flow, arms flailing and just missing large logs and detritus seething downstream after the big rains which had prevented the Rohirrim from fording at their usual crossing.

Once a laborer stammered out directions in Westron to a horsepath a mile downstream, Eomer kneed Firefoot to sprint along the cliff downriver. More used to running on the open plains, nevertheless he was a warhorse and well used to twisting and turning over foes. In this case, the foes were overturned trees and downed branches, stationary and easier to anticipate than an Uruk-hai swung halberd. Still the river-swept laborer, having grabbed a hold of a swirling uprooted tree, was slowly outpacing the horse and rider.

Over a log, under a low hanging branch, swerving out to the very edge of the cliff and over a root, Firefoot galloped as fast as he could go, Eomer shifting forward over his withers to help their speed as much as he could. They finally reached the horsepath and thundered down the slope. The switchback lost them a few yards, but then they were on smooth packed dirt and quickly caught up to the swimmer's log.

The woman, for now Eomer could make out a pale face and long black tangled tail of hair, was not looking for help at riverside, but instead was busy hauling herself along the length of the log towards the roots. He yelled several times, but it was not until he let out a piercing two-fingered whistle, that she sent a quick wave over her shoulder. When she clambered astride the log, Eomer suddenly understood what he needed to do.

The river itself was only fifty feet across here, moving slightly slower than it had at the twenty foot bridge crossing. Bobbing and twirling around the thick knot of roots in the middle of the flow, the log was fortunately not rolling. Eomer might just be able to use the lariat trick Aragorn had shown him on Brego, although he had not yet attempted it on a galloping horse. Certainly it was worth trying before he chanced Firefoot to the water.

The first throw dropped into the branches behind the woman, but he was able to yank the rope free, unfortunately sending the entire log into another tailspin. While it spun, she continued to scoot along the trunk towards the more stable roots. The second throw landed on the trunk directly behind the woman, but slid off before she could turn for it. The third throw landed perfectly over her shoulders just as she had reached up to pull her ponytail back over her shoulder.

Eomer wasted no time pulling the rope tight while Firefoot planted his feet. Hand over hand, he quickly hauled her across the water and right up in front of him on Firefoot. She weighed no more than a year old sheep, and although she had flailed a little at the initial dunk off the log, she had quickly grasped the rope and kicked to aid his fast retraction.

However, as soon as he had loosened the rope loop and she lifted the rope over her head, she balanced herself on two hands and shifted astride. Now nestled into his lap, she yelled over her shoulder in Rohirric. "I almost had them! Follow that log!"

Eomer stewed in confusion for long seconds, using the coiling of the rope as a chance to catch his breath. The break did not help his comprehension of the dripping and increasingly antsy woman bouncing on his lap. Firefoot pawed the ground, blowing hard, also confused by the strange dancing weight in front of Eomer.

"What? Why?"

The tiny woman vibrated, slapped his leg, and shrieked, "The chain locks! Go! Go! Go!"

Eomer set Firefoot to a canter downstream, but still did not understand the woman's impatience. After about two hundred feet, when it became clear that Eomer was not going to speed up, the impatient little woman, whose fine drawn features reminded him of the elves, twisted around. Levering herself off his shoulders she somehow managed to pull her feet in enough to turn one-hundred and eighty degrees until she was now straddling his lap. The cold dripping had saved him from making a fool of himself before, but now he was fighting off the urge to pull her closer and let her bounce in his lap again.

Instead the woman set her hands behind his head, half pulling herself up, half pulling him down to stare intently into his eyes. She hissed at him. "Without the chain locks, we cannot set the suspension chains. Without the chains, there is no bridge. Without the bridge, we cannot quickly aid the peninsula towns during corsair raids. Without our aid, the corsairs pillage and burn all the towns' stores. Without those stores, we have no extra to supply you with, my good Rohir. So let us get those chain locks before they go over the cataracts and we have to wait another six weeks for a convoy to bring us replacements!"

Fully convinced now of the urgency, Eomer lightly swung the construction forewoman behind him, pausing just long enough to allow her to grab his belt. Flying along the path, he scanned the turbulent waters for the errant log. Before long, the distant roar of the cataracts could be heard over the pounding of Firefoot's hooves. There! There was the log that the woman had ridden.

Unspooling his rope, Eomer wondered what the hell he was going to do if he actually could catch the tree. He estimated it at over forty feet from root ball to crown and at least a couple feet in diameter, easily outweighing the three of them by an order of magnitude. Fortunately the slight woman saw the dilemma as well.

"There is a large iron post just above the cataracts. If you can catch the tree, we can use that as an anchor.

Two times, three times, four times, Eomer cast his lariat in vain. Each time his loop would slide aimlessly against the trunk just above the root ball. Before he could throw again, the woman caught his arm.

"How long is your rope?"

"About two hundred feet."

"We have about a mile before the post. Let me swim back out and grab the chain locks. There is no guarantee the rope could hold the tree anyway."

The rider from Rohan cast about for a less dangerous idea, but could only concur with her plan. He offered her the loop and urged Firefoot to a faster pace pulling slightly ahead of the log. Without ceremony she stood up behind him and dove off the still galloping horse, the rope looped under one arm and over the opposite shoulder.

Eomer watched in awe as she knifed through the water towards the bobbing log, gracefully evading the smaller logs and branches seething about. He squashed the guilty thought that perhaps she would have been better off without his abortive rescue. He could see the iron post ahead of them now, as she hauled herself up onto the log. This time her forward progress on the log was swift, the rope seemed to be giving her confidence. Within seconds she had retrieved the rings and dove back into the water.

Again Firefoot set his feet and Eomer hauled her back to shore as fast as he could. This time her kicking was directed towards keeping her head above water, the large iron rings in her arms dragging her under again and again. Without her hands easing the rope's pull, the hemp pressed tightly against her neck, chafing a deep burn into the unprotected skin there.

Time dilated - her return trip to shore seemed to take forever, every second she was in the water a possible death sentence as logs surged past her partially submerged body and head.

Once her back bumped against the bank, Eomer hopped down from Firefoot's back. He reached down simultaneously grabbing the shoulder of her shirt and the black rings she was trying to pull more securely to her chest. Standing easily, he flung the rings towards the cliff wall then lifted the bedraggled panting heroine to her feet. When her knees buckled and her hands clutched at his arms, he swept her into his arms and sat down upon the path at Firefoot's side.

"Yegads, woman, those things must weigh half what you do."

Pant, pant. "Seventy-eight pounds. More than." Pant, pant. "Thank you."

"Well as you said, this was all in my best interest."

She laughed indulgently, brimming over with triumph. "True, but you must have started out to aid me without thought to your own danger. The entrance to this road is not generally to be taken at speed."

He grinned back at her, cheerful now that the danger was past. "Never a dull moment coming to the aid of you Gondorians. Although I wonder if you might not have been better off without mine today."

Her grin softened to a deeper smile of gratitude, her silver eyes shone brightly up at him. "As at Pelennor Fields, your aid today was most welcome. Without your horse and rope skills, I would likely be clutching the rings at the bottom of the river or riding my own wooden steed over the cataracts by now."

"I have no doubt you would have persevered no matter the odds." Realizing something, he drew in a sudden, shocked breath. "Please. Please tell me that plunge into the water was not a dive."

She ducked her head and looked up at him through her lashes. "I cannot tell you that. I just... When I saw they landed on the log, I thought how generous the Valar were in granting us such luck and that if only I was bold, I would succeed."

"Bold, yes. Foolhardy, most definitely. And very, very lucky."

The woman tipped her head against his shoulder, curving into his warmth, abashed at his chastening tone.

He sighed, forgiving her impulsiveness while understanding it fully. "You may not survive this day yet, if we do not get you warm." He unfolded himself from the ground, still holding her in his arms. "Undress. I will give you my dry cloak to wrap up in."

She looked at him askance, but once on her feet, began stripping without protest. By the time she was down to her surprisingly fine lawn shift and drawers, Eomer had pulled the cloak and his extra shirt from his saddlebags. "Take off the rest and dry off first. Then wrap up. I can bundle everything together."

Without looking to see if he would be obeyed, Eomer left her to retrieve the rings. By the time he returned, she was encased in his cloak, his shirt wrapped around her head and hair turban-style, and starting to wring out her things. He took them from her and fastened a pad across his saddlebags for the rings, securing the whole contraption with the rope.

He managed to bundle her up sideways onto Firefoot's saddle without exposing her too much to the chilly day, and swiftly swung up behind her. As soon as he settled in his seat, she snuggled into his warmth again, tucking her head under his chin.

"My name is ... Thiri." A huge shiver and yawn interrupted her introduction.

"I am Eomer. Rest. I will keep you safe and wake you before we reach your crew."

The walk back took almost an hour, soft intermittent snores emanating from the amazing woman cuddled to his chest. Eomer encountered Eothain before he reached the path leading up to the cliffs. After hearing about the adventure, Eothain bombarded him with teasing comments about catching mermaids and sirens not letting their prey go free. Eomer finally cut him off, not wanting to think upon his admiration for this gallant woman. Not only was she directing a group through complex construction, she was brave and articulate and strong and a skilled swimmer. And to be absolutely honest, despite her tangled state, she was quite beautiful.

But no more - to all purposes he was already promised to Prince Imrahil's daughter whom he would meet at Eowyn's upcoming wedding. They rode the rest of the way in silence, until Eomer woke Thiri just before reaching the promontory. She was swept off his horse and away from him as soon as they encountered her people.

As cries of "Eomer King!" and "Princess Lothiriel!" rang in their ears, her eyes caught his across the crowd and shared the delight of their triumph over the river. Eomer knew that this would be a joyful moment to hold onto, a hopeful talisman against the dark battle-scarred nightmares of the long winter to come.

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><p><em>AN: A take-off on the intriguing Willow-41z's "First Meetings" Chapter 7, Drabble #2._

_Thanks to Glory Bee for reviewing and making me realize I was subconsciously overlaying Viggo Mortensen in "Hidalgo" with Aragorn in this scenario._


	3. The Book

Princess Lothiriel walked purposefully through the healers' garden to her favorite bench at the far eastern wall. Her thick black braid wrapped her head like a coronet, and she kicked the heavy hem of her long grey healer's robes just to enjoy the movement.

She was intent on the private spot to reread an uncomplicated childhood favorite with a happy ending. Written about forty years before she was born, it was also the only book she had ever read that mentioned hobbits, creatures she was obsessed with after meeting Merry and Pippin. Unfortunately, the book only mentioned one hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, and the extent of his presence was constrained to a short description of his person at the festivities after Smaug was defeated.

After the day she had had, only a happy ending would do. Otherwise she might start screaming at the malingering patients and impatient doctors she had to deal with. First, her three orneriest patients had asked her for sponge baths this morning even though she knew the cronies had been given baths just yesterday. Second, not one, not two, but three senior healers had stopped her in the middle of making anti-infection salve to check that she had properly steeped the germander. Six and a half weeks of making the lotion by herself, and now everyone needs to check the process?

The princess cum healer sighed, trying to clear her thoughts. The three erstwhile bathers had been bed-ridden since the Battle of Pelennor Fields and she knew that continued inactivity for previously hearty men was psychologically wearing. Perhaps she should take her own prescription and offer them books to take their minds off mischief. And the senior healers' questioning was really a good sign in disguise. It meant that the load of desperate injuries was lightening, allowing them to think on more administrative tasks.

Her bad mood was not the fault of the healing house denizens.

It had been a long seven weeks since the siege of Minas Tirith began. In all that time as well as the preceding year, her work as a healer had been straightforward, occupying her every waking moment and defining her purpose. But now the soldiers were back from the Black Gates, including her father and brothers who also expected her to be a princess. Sleep had been scarce for a while and her double duties shortened her rest even further – no boon to her naturally curt demeanor.

The final straw was when her Aunt Ivriniel had arrived last night for King Elessar's coronation ceremony, lecturing her long and hard about royal duties. There was no way she was going to be able avoid the court gala this evening as she usually did.

When she rounded the last corner, she pulled up short. Her destination bench was already occupied by a large soldier – King Eomer of Rohan. Even to her almost five-foot-ten slender stature, he seemed a towering giant. His severe face was crowned today only with his own flowing wheat-gold hair. Clad in brown leather boots and breeches, his open collared flowing white shirt rolled up to his elbows, he sat squarely in the middle of her favorite spot.

That would not do. The bench was at least six feet long. He would just have to pick a side. She moved forward again having overcome her initial surprise.

Upon closer inspection, the new king looked tired, faint blue bags shadowing his long-lashed hazel eyes. He slumped forward over his knees, chin propped on big fists, staring at his sister and her suitor barely visible behind the huge tangled rose arbor.

At least now his face was clear of despair – the first, last, and only time she had seen him before was when she had brought King Elessar to his sister's sick bed. He had been kneeling beside the cot, holding a grieving vigil over her blackened arm and deathly pallor. Now he looked more hopeful, clearly content to watch Faramir court an obviously interested Eowyn.

If he was anything like her brothers, he would never tell Faramir that.

She strode over to the bench, forestalled from demanding space when he looked up and moved over silently. He smiled politely, clearly intent on going back to his sentry duty until he glanced at her book, doing a clumsy double-take at the title "Tales of Long Lake".

"That's one of my favorite books." He smiled at her with more interest. "Which story is your favorite? Mine is the one where Bard killed the Dragon."

Lothiriel sat beside the Rider, happy to have found a fellow book-lover. "Well, I used to like the Battle of Five Armies best. It seemed so exciting. But now that I've lived through one myself, I think I might prefer Alanna's hunt in Mirkwood."

He smiled at her in sympathy. "The big battle was one of mine too, until I moved on for the same reason – after my first battle in the eored. Of course, I think I have held almost half the tales as a favorite at one time or another."

He continued, chuckling in remembrance, "Once when Eowyn and I had the chicken pox, my favorite for the week was the one about the ladybug plague. I told her that the itchy spots were our own horde of ladybugs to command. If we could command them forcefully enough, they would stop itching."

She laughed out loud, tickled to picture this serious warrior and his solemn sister scolding their rashes. "I love that one too. I wish I could go to Long Lake in the spring and see the clouds of ladybugs in the meadows."

They traded favorite stories and scenes back and forth until their discussion eventually faded into companionable silence.

After they both had watched Eowyn and Faramir for a while, he broke the silence, nodding at the couple and asking, "So what do you know of him?"

"Well, he's my cousin. I am Lothiriel, your highness."

"Call me Eomer. So Imrahil is your father?"

"That he is. You know him?"

"When sharing a battle and two week forced march, you cannot help but get to know your companions. I know him and your brothers well. They told me some fairly entertaining tales of you."

She cringed, imagining what he possibly could have heard. "Ugh. Please don't tell me. I'll tell you about Faramir instead." So she proceeded to tell him tales from their childhood, mostly fond illustrations of a slightly older and fairly responsible cousin.

She finally stopped when the sun slipped lower, warming their bench through the arches at the balcony edge of the garden. Eomer turned his face towards the sun, stretching and then groaning in pain.

"Eomer! Are you injured?"

"No, I'm fine. I'm just sore and stiff. These last few days have been wonderful. No marching and no fighting, but now all of the myriad pains I had been ignoring for months, maybe years, are a little more obvious."

"I can help with that. Lay down." She stood gracefully and swept her arm out to encompass the flat bench.

He stretched out face down, head pillowed on his arms, his feet dangling over the far end. "Be gentle. This body really has taken a pounding lately," he said through a waxing yawn.

She started by kneading the heavy muscles along his spine, moving up to his broad shoulders, and spending time on each trapezoid, deltoid, and upper arm. It was difficult for her to reach his far left side against the wall, but since he kept making appreciative hums, she figured her technique was satisfactory. He was much bigger than any of her brothers, taller and broader through the shoulders. His latissimus dorsi were also much wider than her brothers, probably from swinging a heavier sword and the long horse-spears. However, when she attempted to dig her fingers into them, he flinched and snorted out a laugh so she moved on.

From her ministrations of the other Rohirrim, she knew they carried a lot of tightness in their sacrospinalis and gluteus media from riding, so she returned again and again to those spots, alternating with kneading his calves, thighs, buttocks, and even his scalp. By the time she was satisfied that she had gotten the knots out everywhere, he was emitting soft snores.

Happy with her efforts, she picked her book back up and sat down cross-legged on the path near his head, leaning her shoulders against the bench. With the sun warm on her face, she read through several of the stories they had just discussed.

Occasionally she looked up to where Faramir and Eowyn were still talking, limned with sunlight against the darkening plains towards Osgiliath. Taking on his watchful chaperonage was easy – the couple seemed content to simply clasp hands and converse, drinking in each other's company. As the sun slipped beyond the edge of the arched balcony and the garden turned cooler, the gentle pair strolled towards their bench.

Lothiriel grinned at Eowyn's amused giggle upon viewing the reposing warrior and waved them on. "Let him sleep. That way he can't chaperone," she whispered at the two of them.

"Will we see you at King Elessar's pre-coronation ball tonight, Thiri?" Faramir asked quietly.

The black-haired princess wrinkled her nose at the thought of being friendly, although she was in a much better mood now than she had been upon entering the garden.

Eowyn remarked, "Eomer has to go and do the pretty. He hates that."

Lothiriel nodded thoughtfully in sympathy. "Lovely. I hope to be entertained watching him act the bear."

Eowyn giggled again softly at her droll tone.

"I suspect you will be a matched pair, Thiri." Faramir turned to Eowyn. "She used to bet with us on how fast she could get her mother to dismiss her from dancing."

"I was eight years old, Miri!" Lothiriel hissed back at him. "And as I recall, the bets were which one of us could get kicked out faster," she riposted in mock affront. "Although I still don't enjoy balls as much as Aunt Ivriniel feels I should. She lectured me for hours last night before I finally caved and promised I would go. So I will be there in all my finery and on my best behavior."

"Poor Thiri. I bet she's determined to parade you in court while all of the nobles are here for the coronation."

"Mmmhmm. She actually told me that she plans to marry me off before I turn twenty-one, as if my work as a Healer is wasting my time."

Eowyn looked at her in sympathy. Lothiriel felt her understanding, even though she knew Eowyn no longer aspired to be anything but Faramir's wife and chatelaine. The healer agreed with the former shieldmaiden that after fulfilling her original warrior's dream with the horror of killing the Witch King of Angmar, any sane person would concentrate on creating life and comfort. Lothiriel was glad that the lovely blonde seemed to be well on her way towards achieving said goal.

"Perhaps you should marry my brother. Rohan is going to need a lot of healing in the next few years," Eowyn said as she gestured fondly to his sleeping form.

"And then I might get some inside support for my suit," Faramir joked as wrapped his arm around Eowyn's shoulders and pulled her closer.

Eowyn looked up into his face adoringly. "That's my plan. Strategy, my dear, strategy." Faramir chuckled and led her off down the path, bidding his cousin adieu.

Lothiriel let her companion sleep for another twenty minutes after they left, then stroked a slender hand down his back. "Eomer, wake up. You will need to dress for the ball this evening."

"Will you be there as well?" he asked her sleepily when his eyes finally fluttered open.

"Yes. My Aunt Ivriniel tortured me into it last night." Lothiriel pulled a face as she responded, but it quickly softened into a smile when she saw how pleased Eomer looked at her affirmation.

"Then save the first dance for me, please." He levered himself off the bench and, with a quick wave over his shoulder, trotted away down the path. She watched bemusedly until he was out of sight, and then wriggled in delight before racing off to her own preparations.

* * *

><p><em>AN: This is my sister's favorite accidental first date – an introductory chat over a book._


	4. The Song

Firefoot's plodding footsteps were muffled by the dense mist swirling off the plains. Eomer knew he was foolish to be heading out to the mass graves outside Minas Tirith's walls without an escort, but he was heartsick and could not stay abed. He had risen early and saddled Firefoot in the dark. A few miles later, the tule fog was only now lightening with the not yet risen sun. Eothain was going to lecture him incessantly when he got back – the occasional warg and orc band still crossed the plains and it would not do for the new king to die being stupid.

So many people had been killed; so many people were left to be fed. While the blond king begged for aid from Gondorian nobles who could ill afford to help themselves, his every other thought was a dreadful replay of finding Eowyn's seeming corpse or the terror of the Black Gate's outpouring. At least out here on the plains, the landscape matched those of his painful memories.

The grief-burdened man stopped Firefoot when he got to the edge of the graves and dismounted. With the sudden silence he finally noticed the singing coming from the center of the barrows. It sounded like a woman, but held more power than anyone he had ever heard before. And the wordless song matched no tune he knew. Up and down the low alto voice described rising short scales in illustration of the large corpse-filled mounds around him. Then it soared wildly, swooping and gliding, a winged melody that threatened to pull the souls around him from the earth and deliver them whole into the West. The aria pulled at his sorrow, bowed his head, and rent his thoughts asunder. He did not notice as he fell to his knees sobbing quietly, his arms pulled over his head to blot out the too-large world.

When he came back to himself, the sun hung above the horizon although the fog had not yet burned off the land. The singing had stopped, the graves were deserted but for him and Firefoot grazing nearby. The trot back to the stables in the palace seemed shorter than the ride out. Eomer felt hollowed out and calm. Even Eothain noticed Eomer's newfound serenity after he had thoroughly lectured his liege.

That night at King Elessar's all-male dinner table, he had more luck with his quest to feed his people. Joking and laughing with Imrahil's boys, something he told himself he needed to do more often, they mentioned that their sister Lothiriel was newly arrived from Dol Amroth. She had come to Minas Tirith ahead of the coronation crowd to discuss the stores she had defended successfully through the corsair raids. As they described it, she should be able to supply not only Gondor's refugee population, but also Rohan's. Generously, the princes extended an invitation to dinner the next day to meet her and set forth his plea. Hopeful and looking forward to the morrow, Eomer accepted and excused himself from the festivities early.

The next morning, the royal warrior again arose before dawn and saddled his horse. This time, his journey out to the barrows was more purposeful despite the again present fog. It was still dark and silent when he arrived at the center of the radiating graves, so he dismounted and allowed Firefoot to wander off. Even if the mysterious singer did not appear again, the graves were now a peaceful place to the king and he reposed against the side of one massive hillock. Legs outstretched and chewing on a grass stem, Eomer waited. He half wondered if he had imagined yesterday's performance. Perhaps it had been a spell of his mind to break the disorder, a defense of his sanity that his innermost mind had conjured.

He did not have long to wait. A few minutes later a small grey mare emerged from the fog, a cloaked figure atop her back. The woman dismounted in the middle of the center circle and allowed her mare to wander off in Firefoot's direction, although she seemed not to notice either his horse or himself half-hidden as they were by mist and shadows.

The tomb visitor turned in the direction of the rising sun, only a slight lightening of the fog betraying its location. This put her in profile to him, so when she pushed back her hood he admired her fine-boned beauty. Eomer catalogued what he could see: pale face with winged black eyebrows, a coronet of matching braids, regal posture, the build and features of the Numenorean line. When she opened her mouth and began to sing, Eomer closed his eyes in ecstasy.

Since he did not lose himself to his grief this day, he marked when she lost herself to her own. The proud woman did not fall to her knees like he had, but remained upright, trying to sing through her tear-clogged throat. When the song eventually lost to her tearing sobs, he arose and approached her. She did not hear his footsteps, so when he placed a hand on her shoulder she startled then collapsed against him. He enclosed her in his arms, his sympathy for her a physical ache in chest.

Eventually her sobs reduced to intermittent hiccups and she pushed away. Nodding a hurried thanks, her gray eyes awash with tears, she rushed off whistling for her mare. Eomer let the woman go, calling for Firefoot, then following her back to the city at a discreet distance, alert to any danger that might threaten her. Once she entered the city, he closed the gap, continuing to tail her until she turned into the stables at the back of several estates he did not recognize. Figuring he would come back at a more reasonable hour to inquire her name, he returned to his own stables.

He found his own estate in an uproar. After yesterday's truancy, his second-in-command had put the entire stable on alert to prevent the king from riding without an escort. But the stablehands had not thought to look for him so early and had not yet placed a guard when he departed. Defending the hapless help, Eomer only succeeded in transferring Eothain's wrath to his own head. By the time his self-appointed keeper was settled, the sun was high in the morning sky and Eothain had extracted a promise to visit every single Rider in the Houses of Healing just so he would not give his men more gray hair. As the visits were a good idea, Eomer could not protest, but he promised himself that he would track down the mysterious woman on the morrow.

That night Eomer was satisfied with a good day's work, but emotionally exhausted after assuring every injured Rider of his place in the future of Rohan. If it were not for the king's need to speak with the Dol Amrothian princess, he would have begged off dinner with his friends.

Arriving at the address Elphir had written down for him, Eomer realized that this was one of the estates adjoining the stables he needed to investigate. Perhaps his hosts would be able to direct him to his bewitching singer. So when he entered Princess Ivriniel's house and the familiar grey eyes of her niece smiled shyly into his, he settled into the knowledge that his life might eventually again be happy.

* * *

><p><em>AN: In my head I call this "Philip meets Aurora minus the happy dancing." Prompted by Willow-41z's "First Meetings," Chapter 7, Drabble #9. And yes, I'm still obsessed with our royals' ability to feed the war-torn Rohirrim._


	5. The Kiss

The new king of the Riddermark could hear the woman's ranting from the first landing. Waving away the cringing maid accompanying him, he continued up the stairs and down the hall. The door had been left a scant few inches ajar, leaving him an adequate gap to catch glimpses of the lovely young woman pacing back and forth. As she swept along, she emphatically pounded one long-fingered fist into her other palm and held forth. Tall and slender, her pale fine-boned face reminded him of the elf Legolas in bearing and the shape of her forehead and eyebrows. Her long, blue-sheened black hair cast a smooth cloak about her shoulders. Occasionally she would tug it all over one shoulder, grip it in both hands as if to rip it from her scalp, and then toss it back to resume her pacing. From a few glimpses, her eyes shone intensely silver reminding him of his friend Amrothos. Actually, she looked a lot like most of Imrahil's boys, but then those of Numenorean stock all looked fairly similar to his eyes, accustomed as he was to the bronze-blond coloring of the Rohirrim.

Eomer leaned a shoulder against the door-jamb, crossing his arms across his chest and his legs at the ankle, content to let the woman's antics entertain him as he gathered the courage to introduce himself to his grandmother, Morwen of Lossarnach. He should have been mentally ready to meet her days ago, having travelled from Edoras towards Eowyn's wedding not far from here for the past two and a half weeks. But he had grown up on tales of her icily cutting tongue and to a man who had only recently been jailed by Grima, another black-haired wit, he found himself cautious about his possible reception.

At least he had not arrived on her doorstep late last night in all of his travel dirt, reeking of horse and man sweat. The town inn had been adequate enough to supply him with a full bath and he wore his second best tunic, saving the best for Eowyn's wedding. He tortured himself for a minute, imagining all of the insults that could have been flung his way if he had shown up uncouth. While he had been able to ignore the pacing woman's strident tones, her suddenly lowered hissing plaints cut through his thoughts. It was her – the woman from last night!

_He had dawdled over Firefoot's grooming last night, sending Eothain and the rest of his entourage off to bed, while he curried his horse and checked and re-checked hooves and hocks. Finally assuring himself of his equine companion's health, Eomer had taken a turn about the town to scout his path for the morrow's visit and stretch his legs. The extravagant use of torches on the main cobblestone roads allowed him to identify his grandmother's house fairly easily from Eowyn's description. Heading back to the inn, he turned down a darker lane to see a cloak-enshrouded woman hurrying towards him._

"_Quickly, my lord! Hide me!" Without allowing him to answer, she grasped his arms and maneuvered him in front of her, her back to the ivy covered stone wall. She gasped as three rowdy men rounded the corner at the far end of the lane. Still too bemused by this turn of events to venture any ideas, Eomer felt her hands at the back of her neck tugging his face down to hers._

"_Kiss me!" She hissed at him._

_Never one to turn down an offer from a pretty lady, or at least from her confident manner a pretty enough lady that she expected his acquiescence, Eomer complied. It had been a while since he had wrestled with the fairer sex, the logistics of returning his men to Rohan after the Black Gates and taking up the mantle of kingship not allowing much time for anything but work and the barest snatches of sleep, despite all the willing women around him. _

_Not that his lack in any way lessened his appreciation for the superiority of her kisses. Soft and mobile, her lips tasted deliciously like the local fruit wine she had imbibed and the essence of her. Her arms wound about this neck, hands combing and rubbing through his long hair. As his arms pressed her to his chest, her tongue darted out to stroke his, every probe sending bolts of lust down his body. He could not get enough of this mysterious woman, exploring the hot wet depths of her mouth only made him want to know everything about her. That and go on kissing her until he turned old and grey._

_After long minutes, he felt a poke at his shoulder. Dimly thinking that she might be getting a crick in her neck and of course not wanting to stop, he gripped her hips in his large hands and hoisted her up tighter against him. He interpreted the groan she made as compliance, as she immediately wrapped her legs around his waist. A little while later his hormone-fogged brain realized that the poke must have been one of the men she wanted to avoid. The thought of possible danger to his woman had him turning, pushing her down and behind him as he scanned the area. He and she were now alone in the alley, but his sudden defense had broken the spell._

_When he turned back to her, she shoved back from his embrace. Not one to force a woman into something she did not want, he took a step back to allow her some space to stand. But when she looked around his broad shoulders furtively and realized the men had moved on, she shoved him farther away. With a murmured curse in Westron he did not recognize and an informal thanks which he did understand, she sprinted off and around the corner in the direction he had just come from. By the time Eomer came out of his daze and followed her, she was nowhere to be seen, not even any echoing steps to give him a clue to her direction._

Hours of searching last night for naught, and here she had been, waiting for him at his grandmother's house. Quickly recovering from his shock, he focused on what she was saying.

"...cannot believe he is considered a leader at all. Why would King Elessar profess any sort of reciprocal fealty to a man so oafish? I don't care what he has done on the battlefields, he should not be allowed in polite society!"

"And I cannot believe Lady Winweld would allow any such behavior at one of her soirees, my dear." Eomer wondered who the woman was ranting about. Hopefully not him, as Aragorn had professed their everlasting alliance. But Great Bema! Grandmother Morwen's papery thin yet regal voice sounded just like the voice his uncle's bard had parroted. He could not see her through the door gap, but he wondered if she wore purple like the bard's marionette.

"Ah! But Lady Serenel told me that he rode his horse right into the middle of her ball! And trampled the buffet while he was at it and she is also a stickler for the proprieties."

Eomer remembered the event only hazily, still torn between a twinge of guilt at the damage the horses had wrought and a sense of overwhelming hilarity at the stupefied faces of the guests. His breaking point after the battles of Pelennor Fields and Morannon had not befitted the dignity of a king, even a king the Gondorians generally referred to as their barbarian savior. He was definitely blaming Amrothos and his gang of entertainment-seeking lords for dragging him along on that unfortunate escapade.

Her sentiment slowly pierced his reverie, she was complaining about him! Defensive anger crept into his thoughts - she knew nothing about him. She had no right to complain about any of his actions, when they had not even exchanged a word as yet. It really was not fair that a woman whose kiss had so affected him, should hold him in such low esteem sight unseen.

"My dear, calm down. I am sure there is much of his value that you do not see. I know you are a good judge of character, but not all of a person's value is in face to face interactions," his grandmother attempted to sooth the young person pacing.

"Face to face interactions! Speaking of which - ha! You would not believe how Lord Hetherington treated me last night! Like a common trollop – he was disgusting. No respect for my personal space whatsoever!"

Eomer lost track of the conversation for a while, so downcast was he by her last emphatic statement. First, she thought she had been kissing someone else. Second, all of last night he had been hoarding away every detail of their encounter in hopes that he might discover the damsel's identity, and she had hated every second of it. He was crushed. He might as well get on with introducing himself, because this situation could not get any worse.

Unfolding himself and throwing the door wide, the warrior king strode in boldly. "Milady, believe me, I deeply regret any and all of my oafish actions. I pray you forgive me."

The black-haired lady paused her diatribe, startled at his aggressive entrance. After a long stare, she swept him a grand curtsy, bowing almost to the floor as she kept her eyes on his. "Your highness. I would forgive you a thousand oafish transgressions, since your introduction to Gondor was to save us all from the dark forces of Mordor."

Eomer watched her graceful rise, marveling at the strength and dexterity shown in such a simple move. He reminded himself that despite her earlier professed disgust, she had participated willingly in the kiss last night and she seemed to be looking upon him favorably now. The determined king mentally squared his shoulders – if she did not like overtly forceful maneuvers, he would woo her gently instead. And he would just have to patiently change her mind about all of the other qualities she had complained about as well.

"So you must be my grandson Eomer. Come here, young man, where I can see you better." Morwen's papery voice called him. The tall warrior blushed - it was one thing to get caught up in thoughts of his obsession when unobserved, quite another to do so in company. He hurried to bow over his grandmother's imperiously outstretched hand. The young king pressed a kiss to the back of the older lady's still slender fingers noting that the only other living Rohirric royal did not wear purple, but was dressed elegantly in a velvet dress so deep blue it was almost black. She sat bolt upright in her chair, wearing her extensive years well.

"You have the look of my husband Thengel - so blond and such solemn eyes." A brief pause, "And this is my cousin three times removed Lothiriel, Princess of Dol Amroth." She twinkled up at him, archly acknowledging his attraction to her cousin. Her silvery white hair framing almost elfin looks - the former queen was an older version of her young cousin. He fleetingly wondered if his grandfather had been similarly lovestruck by his grandmother on first meeting.

Eomer looked back at the woman, Lothiriel, he corrected himself. "Your father is Prince Imrahil?" he asked in surprise.

Lothiriel nodded, "Yes, Ada has spoken highly of you. He said that it was your charge of the Haradrim that turned the battle at Pelennor Fields." She moved on quickly as she saw his face freeze into a polite mask at the mention of war. "But let us not talk of that, are you looking forward to your sister's wedding, your highness?"

"Please, milady, call me Eomer. And I am. Very much."

She smiled happily at him, relieved that he had relaxed again, "Then you must call me Lothiriel."

He smiled teasingly in return, "Lothiriel. It is a pretty name, but surely milady is more efficient."

He was gratified when she laughed at his weak joke, but then she abruptly stopped, embarrased when she caught Morwen's eyebrow hoist. The regal elderly woman shook her head in amusement and shooed them out of the room. "Lothiriel, go show Eomer the blooms on my new bicolor rose. Grandson, the scent is divine - you will not have anything like it in Rohan, although I do believe there is nothing like it anywhere else in Gondor either. By the time you get back, tea should be ready, and then you can properly prepare me for whom I shall meet at Eowyn and Faramir's wedding next week."

Eomer waited until they were in the gardens strolling side by side, the princess' arm decorously resting on his, before he brought up the topic he had interrupted earlier. "Lothiriel, I must confess something that I hope will not jeopardize our further friendship. Last night in the lane, that was I, not the other lord you named. I am sorry if I took liberties I should not have, even if the initial kiss was at your behest and for your safety."

He steeled himself against her shocked gasp, but when she swung around to face him and laughed wonderingly up into his face, he was confused. "Thank the Valar! I thought I was losing my mind when kissing Lord Heth… um... you was so enjoyable last night."

Eomer blushed hard, feeling a dawning hope for his suit. "Oh I assure you, I enjoyed it every bit as much as you if not more. As any man must, when presented with your kisses. Although I would not mind if you kept them for me alone."

With a coy glance, she replied, "Well then, Eomer, I am certain to bestow my kisses upon you well in priority of any I might even think to bestow upon others in the future."

"Please, Lothiriel, anytime." He tried to match her teasing tone, but the offer came out as seriously as he felt.

The princess laughed delightedly. "I am going to take you up on that." She whisked him behind a large rhododendron, bounced up on her toes, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him square on the mouth. Eomer snagged her around the waist before she could swirl away again and proceeded to lose himself in her lips once more. After what felt like a lazy week later, Lothiriel pulled back, tilting her face up to his. "I could do that forever."

With his arms banding her to him chest to breast, the king breathed deep, excited at the prospect. "Well you know, ever since your father found out who I am, he has been propositioning me to meet you and not in the way of say, completing the set, after meeting your brothers."

"I do know. Ada came back from Minas Tirith singing your praises ad nauseum." She wrinkled her nose at her own words. "Not that your charms are nauseating, but his behavior certainly is. He would love for us to marry and give him many horse-mad grandbabies."

"Would you love to?"

Eying him speculatively, but not unfavorably she tried to explain her feelings. "I don't know. Certainly you are extremely heroic in all of my father's stories. And I would not have believed in love at first sight earlier this morning, but now… And kissing you…"

He interrupted her eagerly, "I would love to. I thought so last night. I wandered around for hours trying to find you again after you ran away."

She did not dispute his description of her actions, regarding him solemnly for a moment before smiling again and outlining a plan. "Well how about this. We continue as we are now," she tightened her hands in his hair, pulling his lips down for a quick kiss to make her intent clear, "and if you are still of the same mind at the end of next week after the wedding and I am convinced of your lasting regard, we can discuss a betrothal agreement."

He nodded and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips to seal their pact. But then pulling away seemed idiotic, so he fell back to exploring her mouth, a pastime which she joined in enthusiastically. Finally, she gave him a gentle push on the shoulder and he let her go reluctantly. "I should show you the roses or Cousin Morwen will lecture me about propriety."

"All right. Lead on." He offered her his arm once again, gratified when she snuggled into it instead of assuming the polite form she had used earlier when they first entered the garden. "So does this mean that it was not me you were complaining about when you mentioned King Elessar's fealty and Lady Serenel's ball?"

"Oh no! Of course not. That was all about Lord Hetherington. He is a complete oaf! I don't care if he is my brother Amrothos' friend, he is constantly doing thoughtlessly destructive things."

Eomer was slowly starting to recreate a picture in his mind of a young, blond, fairly soft Gondorian lord he had met while with the Dol Amrothian prince. As the battle-hardened warrior remembered him, the man was only a decent rider and not very good with a sword. However, he had been fairly generous with his supplies and his men had been an asset on the battlefield, so Eomer could not totally write the man off, but he was still slightly perturbed that Lothiriel had confused the two of them.

"Why did you think me he last night?"

"Well, he's about your height, although I should say your breadth is much greater than his and your stance more powerful which I thought was simply a trick of the light and your cloak. Second, he has long fair hair. And third, my plan required cooperation by my companion, and as I mentioned, he had attempted liberties earlier in the evening, so I knew he was not averse. Despite your protestation that any man would enjoy my kisses, some have had enough of my tongue's bite to fear having it in too close proximity."

Eomer chuckled at her apt summation, esteem smoothed by her description and continued admiring glances. The couple strolled out to the rose arbor and back, playfully interrogating each other on likes and dislikes. Before they re-entered the house, Eomer finally asked Lothiriel, "So who were those men you needed hiding from?"

She regarded him with wide, serious eyes. "I have already written my cousin Faramir, but I overheard them plot to kill King Elessar at his wedding next week. At your sister's wedding."

Eomer's visage hardened to a grim mask, reminding Lothiriel that this was a man who had led soldiers to war. "Describe them to me."

* * *

><p><em>AN: I suddenly understand what people mean by writer's block. Before I had just never even tried to write and now that I am, it seems to either flow or it doesn't. I started this back in November when I was on a roll, and I've been having a really hard time finishing it. Even after numerous re-writes it still doesn't feel like it flows properly - my characters seem to want to jump from emotion to emotion. Although maybe I can just blame that on the heightened awareness from new love. :)_

_Plus my ending killed me, because I just can't see how that mystery will unfold – and I want to know! Oh well, fodder for a cozy Sunday afternoon this winter perhaps._


	6. The Talk

_A/N: I am going to break with my own tradition and set up the scene first. Picture this, if you will: Darcy is the hilarious Kat Dennings reprising her role of the same name from the movie "Thor" (Middle-earth instead of Midgard). And Lothiriel here has Jane Foster's upright business-like nervousness, although I always envision her as a more athletic (ganglier? more forceful?) version of the gorgeous Liv Tyler. Eomer is of course the ridiculously hot Karl Urban and Eothain is the yummy Joel Edgerton - think Gawain from the movie "King Arthur"._

_Fair warning: I still think this earns a low rating, but its true title should be "The Talk… about Birds and Bees"_

* * *

><p>Princess Lothiriel sat stiff-backed at the wide wooden conference table, hands interlaced in front of her. The tall slender facilitator wore the simple grey robe and white apron of the healing houses. Equally ill at ease, Eomer King faced her with a questioning half-smile, clearly curious about the sudden request for a meeting. The well-muscled warrior was casually dressed in a long-sleeved collarless white shirt and leather breeches tucked into high riding boots. His dark-streaked blond hair was pulled back at the top in a short tail, the rest left to flow free along his broad shoulders.<p>

Her assistant Darcy and his second Eothain were also present at this discussion, but she knew they would be useless for most of it. They both leaned as far forward over the table as they could, conspiratorial whispering an annoying background noise. Thick as thieves since first they met, she usually had to whack one or both of them to wrest their attention from each other.

The nervous healer opened the meeting pompously, "Your highness, thank you for meeting with us this morning. I am Healer Lothiriel, this is Healer Darcy whom I understand you have already met. We have been in charge of your men here in the Healing Houses of Minas Tirith."

"Yes, and I believe you have already met my second-in-command Eothain." His smile widened gratefully, "I have seen you caring for my men, but have not gotten a chance to introduce myself before now. You have always seemed so busy, I have not wanted to interrupt."

Actually, she had marked when the tall broad-shouldered god noticed her in the halls, but she had been actively avoiding him. Avoidance had been easy early on, when he was in the Healing Houses he had hovered mainly over his sister's bed. However, after his return from the Black Gates a couple days ago, the injured shieldmaiden had no longer required constant vigil and so the solemn warrior had begun to wander, continuously called to visit with both injured and healthy Rohirrim in the halls.

He was just so painfully good looking with his high cheekbones and long-lashed golden-brown eyes, she had defensively busied herself directing helpers or bent her head to her ministrations whenever she had caught a glimpse of him. Even now, Lothiriel was willing her hands and voice not to shake, trying to tamp down on her attraction to the golden king. His wavy hair curled down, soft around his strong tanned throat and… Enough! This topic was going to be embarrassing enough without mooning over him.

She forced herself to reply sedately, "We have been busy. Several of your men including your sister had very serious injuries and we were lucky to pull them back to the living. Fortunately, everyone is currently on the mend, including the more recent additions from the Black Gates. At some point we will need to discuss longer term care and physical therapy for their disabilities, but that is not the topic I wish to discuss today, your highness."

"Please, call me Eomer – I have not earned the honor."

The brunette raised her eyebrow in suprise at his self-doubt - from what she had seen of his interactions with his men, they fully saw him as their leader. However, she nodded her acquiescence and steeled herself to broach the delicate topic, while the warrior faced her in focused interest. His laser regard flamed the pit of lust in her belly, tingles of heat racing over her body despite the coolness of the room. She tried to shield herself by casting her eyes down and looking up at him through her lashes.

"Your Highness," when he involuntarily glowered at the title, she started over, "Eomer." She took a deep breath and let it out again, "the topic I would like to discuss today is sex with you."

Eomer's plush lips dropped open in shock. He attempted to talk, but all that came out was a strangled moan. Lothiriel forged ahead. "Specifically, I would like to talk about having sex with your men."

This time, Eomer squeaked, flushing beet red. Lothiriel could feel a blush-burn creeping up her neck while she fought hard to keep her face serene. She herself stuttered to a stop, unable to continue, the next words a lump in her throat. She looked at him in consternation, his own embarrassed stare returned three-fold. Beside them, Darcy and Eothain stopped their whispering and were regarding the pair interestedly.

"I have never seen Eomer that color! In your medical opinion, do you think he's having a fit, Darcy?" Eothain interrupted the silent standoff in mock concern.

"Yes, Eothain, I believe he is having a fit – a fit of embarrassment. It's probably Lothiriel's fault – she has no sense of introduction," Darcy replied drily.

Eothain interjected, "I believe the word you are looking for is foreplay, Darcy."

"Mmmph, I'm not going to dance around the subject." Lothiriel protested through stiff lips.

Eothain looked pointedly at Eomer, "Now dancing is an excellent example of foreplay, wouldn't you say, my liege?" Eomer just glared at him silently.

The brown-haired healer raised an eyebrow at the interchange, continuing without attempting to soften her words any despite her teasing comment about Lothiriel's bluntness. "Babies, O King of virile Riders, we need to figure out what to do with the babies."

Eomer let out yet another strangled questioning sound, so Eothain took over the discourse. "When a man and a woman love each other very much, or even if they don't love each other, but they looove each other, they can make a baby. Didn't your parents ever tell you where you came from, Eomer?"

Eomer responded with a withering glare, his hands clenched in big white-knuckled fists on the table. There was a tic pulsing in the back of his right hand and underneath his left eye. "A cabbage patch. Shut up, Eothain!"

Eothain mimed sewing his lips together, so Darcy piped up again before Lothiriel had a chance. "In about eight to nine months, there are going to be at least a hundred light-haired babies born - more if the trend continues."

"She is correct, Eomer," Lothiriel confirmed gently, now nominally back in control of her composure and wresting control of the discussion back to herself. "So let's talk about further prevention first. It would be helpful if you could talk with your men about methods of prevention such as withdrawal. However, this is not a good method of prevention for younger, less experienced men or anyone who may have imbibed too much."

At the king's encouraging nod, the healer continued describing options, "We also have a limited supply of sheep's gut condoms that we can offer. These are reusable, but require special care. Anyone who took one would be expected to discuss usage and maintenance with a healer first."

"Another option is green elm. We have an extensive supply here and can make more, but this method depends mostly upon the woman's cooperation as the plug must be inserted into the vagina several hours before intercourse to allow the wood to swell for a tight fit."

Eomer raised an eyebrow questioningly so Lothiriel answered his implied question. "None of the women we have talked to have been unwilling and most women in Gondor are familiar with these methods of prevention, but it is important for both parties to be cognizant of the options."

Lothiriel droned on about the details of inserting the plug and of administering pennyroyal, vervain, and rue tea. Then she went on to discuss the non-penetrative ways to provide sexual relief. Many of the suggestions were known to Eomer already, so he interrupted only a few times with questions.

When she finally finished her litany, she moved on without pause to discussing the options for raising the babies –moving to the Riddermark required some capital and caravan support while staying on Minas Tirith's refugee welfare was a short term solution at best. The king pledged to allow any women who so desired to accompany him home to their sweethearts after the coronation and pay for their passage. Lothiriel breathed a sigh of relief as the king confirmed Eothain's original plan – dealing with the effects of giddy post-battle sexual congress had been taking away from her daily chores of administering to the ill and injured. And after the recent conflicts, there were enough cases to drive all the healers to long hours.

As the healer-administrator began to outline how she and Darcy could present all of this information as well as ration out supplies, the listening king interrupted. "It sounds like this could take at least a week to talk with all of my men. You should know that I am beginning to send eored sections back to the Riddermark already. By next week, there will only be a few of us left in Minas Tirith."

Lothiriel wanted to put her head down and bang it against the table in frustration and embarrassment. Apparently this whole discussion which she had agonized over organizing and steeled herself to perform should have happened at the beginning of the Rohirrim's time in Minas Tirith. Now that the Riders were in the process of leaving, any plans for education had increasingly diminishing returns.

"So this meeting has been mostly pointless," she gritted out, annoyed with her own lack of foresight.

Eomer tilted his head to one side, "I wouldn't say that – we figured out what to do with the babies to be born. And we still have to discuss prevention with the men I will keep here for another month until Aragorn's coronation - at least fifty or so Riders." He paused and then smiled sweetly at her. "And I finally met you."

The smitten maiden smiled helplessly back at him, uncertain if she could infer an admiration equal to her own from his words and tone. To her left, Darcy and Eothain had long turned back to each other, satisfied with their earlier performance as the Greek chorus. They were now giggling over some game with their thumbs dancing above clasped hands and she had no doubt that they were also playing footsies under the table.

Suddenly, Eomer sucked in a sharp breath, face a rictus of pain. He pinched his right hand with the long fingers of his left, digging his thumb into the palm. Lothiriel hurriedly skirted the table to the chair next to him. "Give me your hand," she demanded.

When he did so, she pulled his right hand into her lap, laying it face up on her left knee. She dug her own fingers into the pressure point at the base of his thumb. He gave a high keen of pain, but his shoulders and face eased their tense stance slightly.

"Where exactly does it hurt?" She interrogated the big blond warrior.

"Right now, exactly where you are torturing me," he gasped out. The man paused, panting against the pain, then continued, lips pale, "It has been a continuous ache for the last few days from the middle knuckle to elbow. This is the first time my hand has seized like this though."

The healer held his hand for a minute in silence then turned his hand over so his palm cupped her knee. She pushed up his sleeve to his elbow and began stroking down his muscled forearm, alternating hands. Then the healer picked his hand back up and began pinching gently between each finger joint, then squeezing and stroking each finger in her slender fist. The warrior was making slight gasping noises with each stroke, before he finally stopped her with a warm calloused hand on the back of her wrist. The extra contact sent a warm flush arrowing down through her torso.

"Any idea what might have caused it?" she asked him, twisting his hand over again and stroking down the inside of his forearm. If she might have overreached and brushed the backs of her hands against his large hard bicep, well she was just going to blame her over-enthusiasm for the treatment.

"Too much goddamn self-relief without help." He muttered to himself under his breath. She fought another blush and pretended not to hear until he continued in a more normal tone of voice. "I am more used to riding than writing, and I have not found these treaty negotiations easy."

"Are not the scribes writing the treaties?"

"They are, but they are not mine."

"Faramir will give you copies." Lothiriel admonished lightly.

"How do you know?" Eomer asked skeptically.

"How do you not know? Have you asked him? And besides he's my cousin – I know how particular he is about paperwork and copies in triplicate. He has the soul of an accountant despite all of his time as a Ranger in the wild."

"Oh. I actually had not thought to ask. He did give me a funny look when I first asked for my own pen and paper, but I did not think anything of it at the time, and he gave them willingly enough." Eomer bowed his head looking sad and overwhelmed. "All I know is how to be a Rider. Even as Marshall, my eored's logistics were mostly taken care of by Aldburg's seneschal."

"Eomer, you will figure it out." Lothiriel leaned forward and peered up into his face, pulling his hand deeper into her lap to underline her sincerity. She was suddenly angry at Eothain for not helping this man more with his responsibilities, angry at Faramir for not having offered more guidance, and also annoyed with herself for not having learned more about his needs earlier, embarrassed by her own reaction to him. Just because he seemed healthy did not mean he had no claim on her time and aid. "And you don't have to do it alone."

He tried to smile at her and said, "You know your father said the same thing. He thought perhaps you could help me."

The princess stared, mind whirling with sweaty ways she could help him. But then she frowned. Her father, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, probably wanted to bloodlessly trade her hand in a marriage contract. "Of course I'll help you. You have only to ask."

He looked down at her for a moment in silence. And then his eyes slid lower and went cross-eyed and she realized that he could see down the front of her robes to her breasts. She jerked upright in embarrassment, dropping his hand and pressing her own to the neck of her gown. Dazedly pulling his eyes from her chest to her face, he blurted out, "I wonder what our babies would look like."

She goggled at him, "That's what my father said to help with?"

He paused, unsure of his answer, but then sallied a shy smile and retrieved her hand. "Sort of, although what he said was that he thought you could help me with my organizational needs and that we should consider a betrothal."

The princess rolled her eyes as her fear was confirmed. She corrected her internal dialog, it was not a fear exactly, more like an impossible daydream that was painful to contemplate because of her rampant hormones. But somehow the warmth from his long fingers and broad palms enfolding her slender hand soothed the nervous adrenaline his proximity engendered.

"Eomer! Now who has a problem with putting the sex before the courtship?" Lothiriel half-heartedly tried to inject shock and horror into her voice, but it came out sounding more throaty and flirtatious as her mind spiraled back to all the times she had idly contemplated the same.

The powerful warrior looked hopeful at that and cast around for options. "Um, okay. Courting. A drink? A ride? Or is there a ball tonight? Would you like to go?"

"That sounds nice." The ball really had not sounded at all pleasant earlier when Aunt Ivriniel had been lecturing her to go, but now it seemed like a fantastic idea. If his recent interest was any indication, the low-cut dress she could wear tonight would be the perfect thing.

Having some internal alert for self-profit, Darcy and Eothain immediately refocused their attention on the royal pair at the comment. "Does this mean no inventory tonight? We can go to the ball?" Darcy bounced in her chair, hands clasped under her chin, eyes shining in anticipation.

Lothiriel rolled her eyes, finally feeling more comfortable in the Rider King's presence, her lust for him an ever-present but now anticipatory ache low in her belly. "Fine. No inventory tonight. And yes, we can go to the ball. But I expect at least a hundred bottles of salve on the morrow in addition to the inventory."

Darcy nodded wildly in confirmation, before turning to Eothain in delight. Eothain grinned back at her, "Now you have to pay up on those dances, Darcy! I told you Eomer would convince her." He turned to a suddenly squirming Eomer, "And now you can dance with your princess!"

Darcy looked skeptical, "I'm not sure the way to Lothiriel's heart is really through dancing…" She tailed off as she caught Lothiriel rolling her eyes and shooting a secretive smile at Eomer. "Color me impressed! Apparently Eomer knows the way to woo Lothiriel! Dancing! Who would have thought she would consider that foreplay!"

Deadpan, Eomer drawled to Darcy with a flirtatious smirk at Lothiriel. "Do tell. We certainly have some process to review. After all, Lothiriel presented me with over a hundred babies as soon as we met, before we even discussed marriage."

* * *

><p><em>AN2: __I thought I got the idea of blond babies from Maddy051280's wonderful Eomer/Lothiriel-as-healer story series, but upon rereading those stories I cannot find the idea mentioned (so if anyone know where I might have gotten the idea, please let me know so I can cite it properly). Still, I rediscovered where I must have gotten my general trope for Lothiriel to expect Eomer to ask for aid from Gondor. _


	7. The Guardian

Princess Lothiriel dismounted her mare at the circle of grave barrows in the middle of Pelennor Fields. The massive mounds around her housed the dead of Minas Tirith, Belfalas, and every other army that had held fast here against the fell armies of Mordor. In one of the mounds, the captain of her father's guard lay lifeless and cold.

The dark mist ate at her warmth despite her thick cloak, as the wraiths in her mind lapped at the anger firing her tired body upright. She had arrived from Dol Amroth late the night before, but had not been able to sleep after stiffly denying her father and brothers' welcoming embraces. Instead her angry pacing occupied the night hours before she finally slipped out of the city on horseback before dawn.

The last few months had been difficult for the Dol Amroth princess. While the Haradrim and Urukhai had mustered their forces against Osgiliath and Minas Tirith, the corsairs had stepped up their raids against the ports in the South before abruptly retreating. The young Belfalas leader had successfully defended their strategic grain stores with the few soldiers left her and she had lost no one to the siege itself, but that was cold comfort against the thousands buried here.

The stoic maiden surveyed the dirt tombs with a frozen heart, the mist a grey blanket on forever dreamless rest. So many had died here – so many that could have stayed in the south to keep safe. Instead her father and brothers had mustered them to their deaths here and at the Black Gates.

She sighed, her cold rage against her family was not why she had left the safety of the fortified city so early this morning. The princess had promised her people back home to sing their dead a requiem: men and women who had lost brothers, fathers, sons, and sweethearts.

The black-haired singer contemplated the mist-shrouded barrows again, opening her mouth to begin her offering. Thousands of previously living, the lullabies of mothers huddled together in the stone courtyard – an andante start in a minor key. The rising sun silhouetted the barrows in the mist, men hunched over campfires in battle-ready armor – fifth chords on a rising major scale. Light breaks through the mist, a great eagle swooping down to pace galloping cavalry – she let the melody simply rise from her diaphragm and power to the farthest corners of the plains. A horrifying thud of a battering ram on a wooden gate, her mounted brothers breaking against hordes of orcs - her anger and fear broke through, turning her voice harsh and shrill in her throat.

She halted before the blackness could consume her, the chill mantle of apathy settling damp upon her thoughts once more as the remembered laments of her people echoed in her head. Mechanically she called for her borrowed mare and cantered back through the lightening ground fog towards Minas Tirith. The rhythmic thudding hoofbeats hijacked her heartbeat and muffled all else.

At breakfast the youngest royal mentioned her excursion to the graves, only to have her father and brothers lecture her on the folly of riding outside the gates alone. Her rage drowned out stories of orc bands roaming the plains – how dare they admonish her activity after their maneuvers in the recent war. Instead of spiritedly debating their double standards of safety as was her habit, she icily turned the discussion to disposition of the grain stores. Involved as he was in the administration of the refugee city, her father was easy enough to distract and her brothers followed suit.

Later that afternoon with her father, she recounted it all again to her cousin Faramir, the new Steward of Gondor, and King Elessar, a man whose solemn grey eyes were like looking in a mirror. The subsequent discussion showed the princess the critical role her people's army had played in foiling Sauron and gave her a glimpse of a bleak future averted. She felt a momentary thrill of pride in providing her stern liege with a solution to the current food shortage, another effect of Mordor's strangulation of Gondor and its allies. The king invited her to dinner that night, but discovering her brothers would also attend, she gracefully refused, citing fatigue from her recent journey and ignoring her lingering resentment of their bravado.

That evening, Aunt Ivriniel's murmured marriage plans for her niece drove the princess from their simple supper to an early bed. Lothiriel tossed and turned until the raucous return of her brothers an hour before dawn woke her fully. When the house settled again, she rose and snuck out to the stables. A sleepy groom saddled yesterday's horse and absentmindedly she let it plod its own path down the streets and out the gates. Lost in the featureless fog of her thoughts, she found herself back at the barrows when the mare finally stopped moving forward.

Dismounting, Lothiriel thought back to yesterday's performance, regretting its dismal ending with her newfound appreciation for the importance of the dead's sacrifice. The men lying here did not deserve her anger for saving Gondor. Skipping a warm up introduction she launched directly into the swooping third movement, the power of the song briefly lifting her heart.

Too soon the unwelcome anger and horror and helplessness arrowed through her, unbidden frustrated tears clogging her throat. She fought against the misery until a hand on her shoulder startled her. Disoriented, she fell against a man's hard chest and surrendered to her sobs. His shoulder was warm support under her cheek and the strength of his embrace cracked her open to feel everything she had suppressed for so long.

As her sobs wound down, she began to notice details about her comforter. Despite the cold wet mist surrounding them, he smelled like peace – warm leather, clover hay, the faintest musk of salty skin and horse. And he felt like safety - easily holding up her leaning weight, his muscled arms encircling but not shackling her. The singer could see through her tears his long pale hair pillowing her cheek against the coarser linen shirt he wore – he was one of the Riders of Rohan who had swept in to turn the tide of defense. She finally pushed away and, after a hurried look into thoughtful hazel eyes, fled to find her horse.

Returning to the mountain sanctuary the solitary maiden felt his presence, solid at her back. This was a man who would be able to defend himself and others – a trait she had admired in her father's late captain, what she had expected from her family, and what they had tried to provide in rushing off to war. As the Falas and Eorlingas drew closer to the city, a feeling of serenity enveloped her, a security blanket invisibly thrown over her shoulders by the powerful guard behind her. She slowed down after entering winding streets, but the Rider never completely closed the gap to her side, seemingly content to follow. He continued escorting her to her aunt's shared stables, but when she ran back to the street after leaving her horse with the groom, he was gone. She pledged to return to the barrows for a third time in the hope she might encounter him again.

At breakfast her relationship with her brothers was much improved as she, their only sister, teased them about their late night and jokingly poked fun at their escapades. Even her aunt's arch hints about the princes' dinner invitation to the recent king of Rohan did not discomfit her. Perhaps their guest would impart the name of her silent sentinel.

She took a nap that afternoon and woke late, just in time to complete basic ablutions before dinner. Her aunt frowned at her simple toilette, but the continued calm from the morning's emotional storm allowed her to return a serene smile. So when Aunt Ivriniel welcomed a familiar watchful Rohir as Eomer King, it was eager anticipation that rose in her breast as she caught his eye.

* * *

><p><em>AN: This is basically Lothiriel's version of events in "The Song". It always interests me how folks can focus their emotions on the things they know and downplay all of the things they do not know about a situation. I am sympathetic as I do it too of course, but my day-job is a lot of [sometimes unsuccessful] attempts to ensure that everyone is cognizant of all facts they need to make the right decisions in their own projects._

_Thanks to GloryBee for the push to write this side of the story. I have a ton more ideas, but if anyone has a scenario s/he would like me to explore, please drop me a note. Thanks in advance!_


	8. The Lie

He went first to his sister's room. Exhausted and gory from the march back from the Black Gates and the battles and preparation beforehand, he could barely think. When he found the bed empty, he fell to his knees in disbelief, grief a numb buzz that drowned out all other sound.

Someone took his hand and urged him up. He walked unresisting as the hand led him down the corridor and out into the sun-washed garden. Against the balcony rail, dressed all in white and haloed with sun, a picture of his sister standing with another burned bright against his eyes.

He did not understand. Should not she be flying to her peace in the West? Had not she endured enough between Grima's attentions and their kin dying and her killing the Witch-King? Were not the ones with unfulfilled oaths those that lingered on?

His knees buckled again, bowed down by the weight of this further failure. He could not go in with sword swinging imposing his bulk between her and danger. All of his battle skills spent in saving Middle-earth and he had not been here to save his sister. Nor had he kept safe his uncle or cousin and now he alone endured.

And then all he could see were grey eyes, hands banding his head so he could not look away.

"She lives, my lord. Eowyn has recovered and will live a long life."

He stared uncomprehending into grey eyes and when they rose away from him, he moaned, "Don't go," and clutched at her robes.

But the hands directed his gaze back to the ghost of his sister and the other beside it. "Look, my lord. Eowyn lives."

Something cracked at his grief - a sliver of anger. How dare this woman placate him with lies. Could not she see that his sister had died? That her spectre was trapped here in this cold white stone city?

His sister's shade ran towards him calling his name. He flinched away, still clutching the woman beside him. He would not let her go. He would make her explain to him how this came to pass and how he could fix it. And he would fix it. If it took his whole lifetime, he would fix this.

Eowyn's wraith threw its arms around him. It felt solid, but he knew little about ghosts. So he knelt there stoic, letting the spectre hug him. It could do to him anything it wanted. He owed that to his sister's memory.

The ghost pushed back from him. It looked at him and then at the woman he refused to let go.

The woman spoke to the spectre. "He thinks you dead. I found him kneeling by your bed."

His sister's ghost shook his shoulders lightly. "Eomer! I'm here. I'm alive! Eomer! Eomer! Wake up! It's me!"

He gazed into his sister's beloved eyes, as bright and blue and lovely as they had been in life. "I'm sorry," he said, words inadequate to describe his feelings.

He looked back to the grey eyes that guided him. "What do I do?"

She contemplated him and then turned to his sister's ghost and that of the man. "Eowyn, let him go. Stay here with Faramir. I will get your brother washed and fed and then put him to bed. When he wakes, we can try this again."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

When he woke, a colorful sunset was streaking the sky towards night outside his window. The woman sat by his bed, humming and cutting strips of fabric. A basketful of rolled bandages sat at her side. She looked tired, but a small smile graced her soft pink lips as she worked.

Her long black hair wrapped her head in a braided coronet. Her slender curved neck and high cheekbones reminded him of the swans this citadel was famous for. Winged black brows and long black lashes surrounded the grey eyes he now knew so well.

He was clad in a smooth cotton nightshirt, smelling sweetly of lavender and rosemary. He vaguely remembered soup, a hot bath and generous towels, before she had led him to this room and he knew no more. But there was something else he needed.

"Eowyn lives?" His voice croaked, rusty and hoarse from sleep and clashing battles.

Grey eyes settled his fear. "She lives, my lord." She looked at him searchingly, willing him to believe.

"All right. Please don't leave me." He already knew she had not and she would not.

She confirmed it anyway. "I won't leave you, my lord."

He let his head fall back into the soft pillow, closing his eyes to dream again. She would keep his world safe.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I seem to only be publishing the short intense ones that pop into my head that I can write down almost immediately. The holidays and work are getting a little overwhelming (my newfound writing addiction does not help) and I totally sympathize with Eomer in this scenario. But hey, Lothiriel makes it all better, right? Not that she actually got a chance to introduce herself here._

_Please review._


	9. The Contest

Finally there were only two couples left on the dance floor as the music whirled faster and faster.

Queen Arwen of Gondor looked at ease as her feet flew in sync with the accelerating music. The elf woman's waist length black hair formed a smoothly flowing cape about her shoulders. Her partner, the tall blond Eomer King of Rohan, kept time but only just and sweat dripped from his brow.

Lothiriel, Princess of Dol Amroth and Prince Imrahil's youngest, was a frazzled version of the lovely queen. Her legs felt like stone, her breath labored as she tripped through the steps. Her own partner, the tall blond elven Prince of Mirkwood Legolas, urged her to greater speeds with a relaxed smile.

As a defense, the princess gasped out, "My Queen, please!"

The two elves laughed melodiously.

Legolas called out easily, "My dear Arwen, shall we?"

The queen lightly replied, "Why certainly, my dear Legolas."

The Rider king heaved a heartfelt, "O thank Bema!" as the graceful queen spun away from him into the now-empty elf prince's arms. Let loose, Gondor's young princess staggered into the other human, her legs no longer under her control.

The two collapsed in a heap. The blond man slumped over splayed legs, hands on knees to keep his torso from collapsing onto the black-haired maiden in his lap. Her legs were tucked ungainly underneath her as she leaned her face into his shoulder.

The elves danced on, no signs of strain on either face.

When the dance concluded to the cheering of the crowded hall, the musicians were as red-faced and sweating as the still recovering human dancers. The elf queen and prince strolled over to their former partners.

"Eomer, you dance excellently well," Arwen complimented him with a gentle smile.

He just groaned in reply.

"Lothiriel, thank you for the dance. Perhaps you will honor me as a partner again soon," the elf prince requested smoothly.

Still panting, the princess rolled her head to uncover one eye and glared at him. "Thank you, my friend. Perhaps later. In the meantime, I will be outside for the next few dances. In the garden. The cool garden."

Eomer King interjected quickly, also gulping for air, "Me too. Uh, it would be my honor. If you would partner me. In the garden. At least five dances. Maybe ten. With ale. Or wine."

The princess smiled up at him gratefully as the king added detail to their escape plan.

The elf queen exchanged an arch glance with her new escort. "Of course, my dears. Why don't you go out there now. I will send someone with refreshments."

The two young royals clutched at each other for balance as they levered themselves from the ground. The glittering throngs watched their tottering progress to the doors with amusement and no little sympathy. Even as the couple's steps grew more sure, they continued to lean heavily upon one another.

The queen waved at a servant to follow them with drinks. Then she and her companion moved to where the dwarf Gimli, her husband King Elessar, and Prince Imrahil stood, avidly assessing the exiting pair.

Arwen kissed her husband on the cheek in greeting while Legolas smirked triumphantly at Gimli.

The dwarf raised his mug of ale in salute. "You were right, my dear elf! Nothing like a shared battle to bring two people closer together."

* * *

><p><em>AN: There are at least two fics out there which directly inspired parts of this one. 1. Amrothos normally dances in contests with Lothiriel, but she partners Legolas instead. "Rivalry" by Medea Smyke 2. Gimli and Legolas chortling over their machinations for throwing a couple together. Please forgive my vagueness – I have read almost all of the Eomer/Lothiriel stories on this site and although I have not marked them sometimes the plots or scenes percolate in my head for later. _

_Another recommendation for y'all: author Deandra. Start with "No Mistake."_


	10. The Conference Room

_A/N: Another starter note. I read a review the other day on an Eomer/OC fic suggesting less dialogue and more description. The opinion surprised me, because I very much admire dialogue writers (Joss Whedon!), hence the poll on my profile. Then I realized that I have not yet written any dialogue-only stories AND I have a commercial for my program at work that I need to have written in Q1. So I figured I might as well explore and this is what came out. Interesting exercise since I tried to stay away from script conventions to make it more like listening to Prairie Home Companion. Someday I'll go back through the story and edit the voices for more pronounced diction._

_Please review! I would love to have feedback! Please tell me whether this story works or not – yes, no, maybe a why, if you can swing it._

* * *

><p><strong>Late afternoon in a garden…<strong>

"Eomer. Eomer, wake up."

"G'way, 'wyn. Napping."

"I can't believe you can sleep out here. It's chilly."

"Warm in th' sun. Get outta m' sun."

"Then scoot over. It's too muddy to sit on the ground and you're taking up the whole bench."

"Don' wanna. Wanna sleep. Gonna be a late night t'night. Stupid ball."

"Fine. If you aren't going to move over, I'm going to sit on you."

"Oof. Eowyn! Go away!"

"No. Eomer, wake up. You have to help me. What are the qualities that a wife should have?"

"Sexy. Interested in me. Tolerant of me. Tells me when I'm stupid. Fine. I'm up. Eowyn, Faramir loves you and likes you the way you are already."

"Oh, I know. Ack! Stop hugging me so hard. My arm…"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorr…"

"Eomer! Don't look like that. I want you to hug me, just not so hard. It's fine. Aragorn healed me. It just… needs some time."

"M'kay. Here sit next to me on this side so I don't jostle it."

"Ahhh. That's better. No, keep your arm across my shoulders. Warmer that way. All right. I understand 'sexy' and 'interested', but what do you mean by 'tolerant'?"

"Well, everyone has his quirks. And I know I have a temper - I can't be the easiest person to live with. I would hate that my bride might be scared off by something I do as habit."

"I think any woman would tolerate a lot to be Queen of the Riddermark."

"Yes, well, that's why I mentioned 'interested in me' first. No man wants to be married for his responsibilities, but because she loves him enough to shoulder them."

"Hmmm. Well, only I get to call you stupid, stupid."

"Ha! Eowyn, you know what I mean. She'll tell me if I'm doing something that might be wrong and hurt people. Or her. Like just now with you. Sometimes you need to spell things out for me. I'm still trying to figure out how to be a man and being king or a prince in Faramir's case is so much bigger."

"I have just the woman for you! My friend Lothiriel."

"Awww. Eowyyyyyn."

"It'll be great, Eomer! You'll meet her tonight."

"Hmmmph. We'll see…"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**At dusk in another garden…**

"Lothiriel! Lothiriel! Wait up!"

"Oh, hello, Faramir! Alphros, stay away from that mud. Alphros! Stay. Away. From. That. Mud."

"Alphros, your aunt said to stay away from that mud. You are a prince and need to know when to do something and when to refrain. And if you really want to jump in, I'll bring you back tomorrow."

"Nice, Faramir."

"I used to be a muddy little boy too, you know."

"Ha! Alphros, that's a good offer. You can play in the mud tomorrow. But right now we're all dressed for the party, so let's hold off. Why don't you try to find any worms that might need rescuing. So how are you doing, Faramir?"

"I'm good. I'm glad I ran into you. I wanted to ask you some things."

"Yes? There you go, Alphros. Throw that worm back into the flower bed. And don't touch your clothes."

"Lothiriel, what characteristics do you think would make the best husband?"

"Faramir. Eowyn loves you just the way you are."

"Alphros! Worms in the flower bed, no little boys. There you go. Stay on the path."

"Thanks, Faramir."

"No problem, like I said, I too was once a young muddy boy long, looooong ago. But answer the question anyway."

"Faramir, you were a Ranger. I think long ago was only a couple of months. What question?"

"What do you want in a husband?"

"Chemistry. Pays attention. Likes who I am. Communicates."

"Pays attention?"

"Yes, I want my husband to notice me and what I need, not just what I can do for him. I also think he should be self-aware and pays attention when I tell him I want or need something different. Every man my father seems to be throwing my way is some lord with big estates. Running something like that is a lot of work and I don't want to have to fight the lord in order to do right by myself or my people."

"Your people?"

"Well of course. If I marry the lord, I marry the land, and the people are my responsibility."

"Elessar is making me Prince of Ithilien. Do you think Eowyn will be okay taking care of the land like that?"

"She knows. We talked about it yesterday. She's been the ranking lady in Rohan for the last twelve years. And now she no longer wants to be a shieldmaiden, so you don't have to worry about her running off from her duties. She's ready. You'll be fine."

"Oh, that's good. And I can't really blame her for throwing herself into battle, otherwise I never would have met her. And she did appoint someone in her stead when she left."

"I know. I completely approve of her and you. She's already the sister I never had."

"Good! She talks about you all the time. I think she wants you to be a sister in truth. I certainly wouldn't mind. It might make her brother less grouchy at my suit."

"Oh, not you too. I haven't even met the man. Stop trying to marry me off to poor Eomer."

"Not exactly poor. He is the King of Rohan."

"And he has a very big job ahead of him. I don't envy him the next few years. Although from what Eowyn says, it sounds like there are a lot of things we could bring in from Gondor to make things easier. Goods and trade, certainly. But also some of our building practices and medicines. And the Dimholt is going to be huge for everyone, not just Rohan."

"Lothiriel, I wouldn't write off marrying him too soon. You are sounding way too excited about rebuilding his land."

"Don't be ridiculous, Faramir. It's just an interesting problem. The Rohirrim saved us and we owe them aid. I don't have to marry anyone to help out. And between all the pressure from you and Eowyn, and even my father, oh and Erchirion and Elphir. Even Alphros adores him. Actually everyone but Amrothos seems to want me to fall madly in love with him. So, I have to say that I really don't care to meet him."

"Alright, alright! Backing off. If it happens, it happens."

"Not if I can help it. Anyway, it's getting dark. Aaaalphrooos… Time to go in."

"Okay. See you at the ball tonight, Lothiriel. Bye, Alphros, see you tomorrow."

"Come along, Alphros, good job staying clean. Let's go find your mother. See you later, Faramir."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**That night, inside a closet…**

"Oof."

"Hey! This is my hiding spot. Get your galumphing boots off my toes."

"Sorry! Sorry! I can't see a thing. It's dark in here."

"It is a broom closet."

"Here. There must be room for both of us. You step up on my feet. I'm wearing riding boots, so your dancing slippers won't hurt them. Okay. There. Now put your arms around my waist."

"Aaaah! Awk!"

"Sorry! Okay, I've got you. This would work better if there was more room."

"Yes. Well. There would be more room if there were not actual brooms in the broom closet."

"Ha! True. Okay. I'm going to lean back now."

"Oh, that is much better. As long as you can handle me leaning on you and me standing on your feet."

"Not at all. This is nice. Thank you for sharing your spot with me."

"Sure. Sooo, who are you hiding from?"

"My sister. She's trying to get me to meet one of her friends. Again."

"Aaahh. Myself, as well. Except that it is my cousin I am hiding from. He interrogated me this afternoon on what I want in a husband. He wants to introduce me to someone at this party tonight."

"Yeah? Why?"

"He is in love. He wants everyone else to be too."

"Mmmmm. Same with my sister. A little nauseating."

"I suspect you are secretly thrilled about it."

"I kind of am. She has been through a lot lately. It's nice to see someone appreciate her whom she can appreciate back."

"You sound as if you think her trials are your fault."

"They are."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"I tried to defend her from unwanted attentions and was thrown out of court instead. She was on her own for so long, I am afraid to ask what happened."

"Well, as she has been falling in love, has she seemed at all afraid of her suitor?"

"Bema, no! I find them in every dark corner. I'm surprised they weren't already here in this closet."

"Then I don't think you have anything to worry about, if it doesn't seem to be affecting her happiness. If she needs you to know something she will tell you. And her new lover is yet another sympathetic ear if she needs it. Any harm that may have come to her will be both of their problems if it turns out to be a long term affair."

"He's already asked my permission to marry her. As if I have any say."

"Ah! So now you know she definitely has ready assistance should she need it."

"That is a nice way of putting it. Thank you. That makes me feel much better. And I suppose I shall have to tell him I am in favor of this match."

"That would be very magnanimous of you.

"Or maybe I'll just stop growling at them when I find them making eyes at each other from now on."

"Aaand, that would be a good start. Oh! Aaaghhh. Ow."

"What's wrong?"

"My foot is falling asleep."

"I thought I would be the one to say that first."

"Yes, well. Dancing slippers do not exactly support one's feet. They are supposed to be dainty accessories to my dress."

"That seems ridiculous. As far as I've seen, these Gondorian dances are pretty athletic. And looong."

"They can be. They are mostly see-and-be-seen events. A chance for the hoi polloi to dish out deals and contracts."

"Uh, the what? The wah-puh-wah?"

"The hoi polloi. The nobles. The landed and moneyed. They trade around land and money via handshakes and marriages."

"You sound a bit jaded."

"My father's been making noises lately about marrying me off. Apparently I've done such a good job running our lands at home while he was off at war that he thinks I would be a good 'asset' to a certain someone."

"Well certainly, those skills are what are needed most after the war. Rebuilding the Riddermark will be a huge effort. I have no idea where we will begin."

"Very, very true! I do not envy any of you your task. However, I've got some ideas on where you could start."

"Go on."

"Let's start with actual building. You don't have much timber and it gets very cold in the winter. The limitation with stacking sod into walls is that you cannot go very high before it begins to crumble under its own weight. We have a new way of baling our hay fodder into blocks for storage. It is very light and sometimes farmers will build temporary winter barns as it creates very warm walls. Feasibly it could be used to construct houses as the basis of wattle and daub, but on a much grander scale."

"Hmmm. Interesting."

"And for staking the bales you can use a special grass that grows south of the Harad. It may not survive as a perennial in Rohan, but it grows so quickly the summer season should be more than adequate for producing building materials."

"Huh!"

And you know there is a special long-passage chimney you can put on a hot-burning oven that can hold the heat for longer. It needs to be built with special volcanic rock, but you have that on the Dwimmerhorn and only the heating chamber needs to be lined. Then you don't have to burn as much peat or dung or whatever to heat a house."

"Damn! That all sounds fantastic! Unfortunately you didn't see my eyes glazing over at your first point, because I have no head for that sort of thing. Maybe you should come out to the Riddermark to help us."

"I would love to! Are you serious?"

"Yes! We really do need all the help we can get. Come with us when we go back next month."

"That would be wonderful! I would really like to help! And I have also been doing some research on the… Hey! Are you getting hard?"

"Yes."

"Well, stop it!"

"You're a girl and you're wiggling against me and you smell incredible. Asking me to stop is like asking the Dwimmerhorn to become the plains of the Entwash."

"I can't help the wiggling. My foot is still asleep. Este! This is so cliché."

"What? You mean because this is what broom closets are for?"

"I believe we have already established that broom closets are for brooms. But yes. I do think this is what most couples use these things for. Aaaand... You-smell-very-nice-too."

"Thank you! Do you mind if I kiss you?"

"Um, well. Gah! My father is already going to kill me. Fine. No, I don't mind. Actually, I think that would be lovely."

…

"Wow! You taste incredible too."

"Yes. You too. Sh. More."

…

"Oh! Oh, damn!"

"What? Why? Stopping?"

"Rider… Your sister, my cousin... You are Eomer."

"Yesss... Don't tell me you are Lothiriel."

"Mmmhmmm. Eowyn has been desperately plotting to get us together."

"Yes. And likewise with Faramir, huh?"

"Mmmhmmm. Actually, it feels like my entire family has been conspiring. I guess we didn't escape after all."

"Damn. We might as well go out to the party then."

"Do we have to?"

"Yes? We're pretty lenient in the Riddermark, but I consider your father a friend and I suspect he would consider this me compromising you. So, well, I'm going to open the door on the count of three. One-two-three."

"Oooo, it's bright. Oh! Hello!"

"Okaaaaay. I can't believe I was fighting the introduction earlier."

"Me too. Umm, uh…"

"Would you… would you like to dance?"

"Do I have to let go?"

"On second thought, Lothiriel, do you want to stay here?"

"Good idea, Eomer. Close the door."

"Damn. It is dark in here."

"Doesn't matter. Kiss me again, Eomer."

"I do like a woman who knows what she wants…"

"And I like a man who follows order… Mmph! Mmmmm…"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**Later that evening, outside a closet…**

"Faramir! I don't think this is going to happen tonight. I have not been able to find Eomer anywhere and I have to leave soon. I have an early morning ride with Legolas tomorrow."

"Don't worry, my love. It will happen eventually. Besides which, I cannot find Lothiriel either. Hey! Amrothos! No macking on my betrothed."

"Darling! Lothiriel told me just yesterday that cheek kisses are a perfectly acceptable polite greeting."

"'Mir, I'm not going to steal your girl. And finally! Well congratulations, you two lovebirds! I knew the moment I saw you both that you would bring each other joy."

"Thank you, Ro!"

"Yes, thank you, Amrothos. I will do everything I can to deserve your cousin."

"Oh no, White Lady of Rohan, it is the other way around. My cousin must strive every minute of every hour to deserve you. But never fear, Eowyn, I can tell you are well pleased with him. So! In order for me to find you two here in the candle-lit crowd, you must be enjoying the party more than usual. What coaxed you to stay? The sprightly dance music, the glittering throngs, the excellent wine, and the tasty passed canapés. No? Then I am surprised you have not already found a dark corner or maybe a… closet… this evening?"

"Actually, Ro, we were just wondering where Lothiriel is. Did you escort her here this evening?"

"Ah! Well I arrived with her, but am no longer her escort. And what about you, Eowyn? Were you wondering where Lothiriel is? Or perhaps where Eomer is?"

"Yes, Amrothos. I am in fact wondering where Eomer is. Do you have information for me? Are you trying to tell us something?"

"Mmm. 'Mir, no need to look so confused. My dear Eowyn, I am trying to say that perhaps your usual pursuits and your current search do not have so very different a target. Perhaps you should find a closet… However, I suggest you avoid the one about halfway down the back hall on the left as I directed Lothiriel and Eomer there when we first arrived and they are using it well."


End file.
